


she wants you to steal and get caught

by freloux



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Aftercare, Dom/sub, F/M, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-28
Updated: 2016-06-28
Packaged: 2018-07-18 17:10:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7323700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freloux/pseuds/freloux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For she loves you for all that you are not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	she wants you to steal and get caught

**Author's Note:**

  * For [xXdreameaterXx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/xXdreameaterXx/gifts).



> From your prompt: "After the Doctor fucks a little something up (doesn't really matter what) he must do everything Clara says for a whole day (outside and inside the bedroom). And he quite enjoys being her slave (even though he would never admit it)."

If the Doctor were the sort of person who admitted things, he would tell Clara that sometimes he does things like this on purpose. It's out of a desire to show her completely who he is just to see if this time, she'll back away. And each time she doesn't.

The showing up late was an accident, though. He's in a wisteria forest that's really quite pretty: pink flowers cascading down in a waterfall of colour. It's in the middle of an island with precarious cliffs - he nearly falls into the sea a couple of times. But something's off. He feels different, looser in his skin like there's no tether to keep him contained. He shrugs it off at first, until he runs into a tree and wishes that Clara were there to see this because even though she'd laugh at him, it would at least be friendly. Some kind of connection instead of this weird and lonely feeling. Which is when it really hits him that Clara isn't here, and that it's Wednesday, and he's forgotten to pick her up.

He leaves so quickly that he stumbles down a hill towards the TARDIS, narrowly avoiding the ocean but ending up in a bramble bush. Thorns dig into his skin and there's mud puddles everywhere. He's so eager to get out that when he finally does, he almost doesn't notice the planet disappearing behind him.

"You're late. _And_ you're a mess." Clara: nonplussed, arms folded, lips pursed, leaning against the doorway of her flat. "Where were you?"

His non-explanation-explanation of "I'm here now and that's what matters" doesn't seem to sit well with her. So he starts to tell her about the wisteria forest, but she cuts him off before he gets too far. "I'm sure it must have been beautiful." Her sarcasm is not lost on him. "Perhaps you can take me there."

"That's the thing." He looks down at his hands. Ruffles a hand through his hair, which causes more than a few twigs and leaves to fall out. He's got dirt under his fingernails and dirt all over his trousers, which are mostly destroyed by now. "In my haste to get here I may have created a timeline where it doesn't exist anymore."

Clara almost laughs. "I would say 'let's talk about the planets now' but it seems that there are no planets to talk about."

"Right." It breaks him apart when she's so disappointed like this, but he doesn't know any other way to be. That's the thing - it's always so easy. It's just another thing that they do, the constant provoking. He would apologise, he really would, but it gets stuck in his throat. Besides, there are other ways for him to make this up to her.

"Show me something better, then." He pauses, hands hesitant at the controls. "Well? Go on."

The Doctor might be the one driving, but Clara's the one in charge once they land. Hills and valleys, ending up at a river. Clara takes all her clothes off and starts swimming lazily in the dark water. (He doesn't look - he's not sure if it's something he's allowed to see.) So instead he sits on the bank and very studiously reads a book about Rube Goldberg machines, trying to make his thoughts as unsexy as possible. It's a bit difficult given that every so often he can see a flash of skin out of the corner of his eye. Curves rising up out of the water.

And as lovely as this exoplanet is, they both know it's just a consolation prize.

She climbs out of the water and drips all over the bank as she dries herself off (he's still not looking) and gets dressed again. Then she makes him take her to a little restaurant just around the corner from her flat. Somewhere where he won't get second looks for generally looking like a compost heap with legs. Plasticy, sticky seats and greasy windows and tired staff who look like they've been on their feet for a hundred years. He's about to order when she snatches the menu out of his hands. "Nu-uh." She hands him the children's menu instead.

***

If the Doctor were the sort of person who admitted things, he would tell Clara that he likes it when she's a little bit controlling. Like now, when she's straddling him. Her weight completely pressed against him, grinding just enough to tease. Psychic imagery, light scraps, a hint and suggestion of what she wants so he can see which really isn't fair - but fitting, he supposes, for what he's done. Her hair curtains over him as she leans in, almost close enough to kiss. It still smells like the river, even though it's almost dry by now, and the smell makes him feel like he's being tugged along in the current.

He feels itchy - there's all this heat prickling under his skin, boiling into something both apprehensive and eager. Sitting on her bed as she disentangles herself from him and performs little girly things: checking her makeup in the mirror, applying lipstick, her movements casual as if he's not even here.

"While we were at the restaurant I started thinking," Clara begins. "I really should do something with you, shouldn't I."

It's sweat now that makes him itch, all damp and nervous. He smooths his hands over his thighs, palms damp. "I suppose you should."

She asks him what he thinks that should be. Clara's so used to his mental chatter that it's awhile before she sorts through all the static to find that one line that stands out from all the rest. A psychic flicker that she almost misses until he repeats it, louder: _I want you to hurt me_. It's accompanied with a rather pleasing mental image of the Doctor, bent over, waiting and wanting to take everything that Clara gives him, again and again.

"Let's see." Still not looking at him. Examining her lipstick in the mirror instead. "Two for showing up late..."

"It was an _accident_ ," he protests.

Clara finally meets his gaze, watching him watching her in her vanity mirror. Her expression is vaguely predatory. " _Three_ for showing up late. Two for destroying a planet..."

"Again, accident, and it wasn't destroyed, exactly, it was a timeline, like a Rube Goldberg machine -" He can't stop his mouth, even though he knows it will - it does - get him into trouble.

"Three for destroying a planet, then - do you want me to keep going?" she asks softly. Daring him.

(Yes. Of course he does.)

"Oh, dear," Clara says as she approaches him, tone disapproving. "You're up to six already, Doctor." She taps her lower lip with her pointer finger. "What else? Hmm." Looking him up and down with a critical eye. "Two for being completely dishevelled - any excuses for that?"

He swallows. "I fell down. On my way out. From the forest."

"That's really too bad," Clara says, though she doesn't sound sympathetic at all. "Was that an accident, too?"

"No," he lies, voice small.

She tilts her head at him. Considering. "So that's eight. I think that's plenty, don't you?"

(Yes. Enough and not enough.)

Then Clara tugs him up off her bed. "Turn around."

He ends up bent over her chair, hands on the back of it and feet planted solidly on the floor. That part feels odd to him, like it's his only attachment to reality while Clara rips his clothes off. It's a fairly easy job considering that the wisteria forest did most of the work for her.

"Count them off, then." Kneading, squeezing him with her little hands before spanking him, smacking heat into his skin. Heat that surges all the way to his cock.

"One." Gritted teeth, trying not to moan, that boiling feeling starting up again because he feels it, the imprint of her hand. This first is easy, like she's luring him in, because then "Two - " and his breath hitches. It's hard enough to sting. His shoulders jerk. Anticipation coils up inside him. Her room is quiet. Too quiet. Broken up only by the sudden, jarring smack of skin against skin. "Three," somehow tumbles out of his mouth - he's gasping for air both with how insistent she is and how much he wants this. Needs this.

"Was this what you thought would happen?" Clara asks from somewhere behind him. "When you were in that little forest of yours?" Touching him, her hands light on his hips - too light.

"N-no," works its injured way out from between tightly pressed lips. "Four - " much too softly, because she hits him again. " _Five_ " is louder, then, just begging more than anything else. He says "Five" but really he wants to say keep going. His knuckles are white on the back of her chair, which is somehow so little and human-seeming to him. He's out of his mind. Legs trembling, searing heat all through his body.

Clara pauses. The cool air is a shock to his red, overworked skin. This is easy, too; it's her turn to provoke him. And as six and seven pass he grows used to it, the interlude followed by the impact. As if she's breaking him even farther apart by knocking him back to his senses. He feels smaller now, that loose feeling gone, like he fits completely inside himself because he's here with her. "Eight," he shudders. All that warmth is now concentrated at his cock until it becomes something that drips onto the floor. Eight and she's hit right into the part of himself that is more human and kind, the part that is completely beholden to her.

"What _were_ you thinking, then?"

He can't really talk, so he unspools it for her mentally instead - how he was lost in the forest and the planet didn't really matter because he needed her. As he shows all that to her, painting the picture in her mind, Clara applies salve to his skin. Liquid that cools and soothes. She's gentle with him in a way that is itself almost more than he can take. So often he feels like pain is all he deserves. It makes her sensitive touch overwhelming to him. Knowing that she still loves him even when he's broken - enough to put him back together.

"Come to bed with me," she says, and takes his hand. She takes her clothes off - slowly, just for one last tease, but she's gentle again with him after. Opening herself up and welcoming him in. If the Doctor were the sort of person who admitted things, then he would tell Clara that this is the part he likes the best, when he's warm and safe inside her.

***

If the Doctor were the sort of person who admitted things, then he would tell Clara all of this.

But he isn't. So he doesn't.


End file.
